


Spook Hunting

by escritoireazul



Category: Original Work
Genre: Campfire, Gen, Ghost Stories, ToT: Monster Mash, Trick or Treat: Extra Treat, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 09:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16323782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: It don't matter what they find. None of the stories are ever told the same.





	Spook Hunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



Mary Beth leaned back against her saddle, legs stretched out toward the fire. She was dusty all over and spattered with mud from the soles of her boots all the way up to the gunbelt slung low across her hips. She wanted a hot bath and someone else to wash her clothes clean. What she had was burnt chili, stale bread, and warm water.

The fire popped and crackled. Nearby, her horse grazed. Charlie Boy nickered, and Mary Beth whistled, low and steady. Call and response. She spent more time with Charlie Boy than anyone else but her cattle dog, Blue.

Mary Beth’s little brother had named Blue when they got her, the runt of her litter, after Babe the Blue Ox. It made sense, he said when they all laughed at it. She’d grow up big, and she was a blue heeler. He jutted out his lower lip, and that just made Mary Beth want to laugh harder. Blue hadn’t grown up all that big, but she was solid and strong and fast. That meant more than big.

Mary Beth wasn’t too big, neither, but she was solid and strong and fast.

In the distance, a scream rang out. It came on the wind, and by the time it reached her, it was thin and petering out. She rested her hand on her rifle, stretched out alongside her right leg. Probably it was one of those ol’ big cats, and it was far enough away not to be a threat.

Another came. Closer this time. It sent a cold scratch down her spine.

Blue sprawled nearby, on her back, paws in the air, tongue lolled out. She wasn’t worried about whatever made that noise. If she was fine with it, Mary Beth could be too. She shoved a hunk of bread into her mouth, chased it with a gulp of water to soften it up. Chewed hard, teeth grinding.

Dry dead grass crunched nearby. Footsteps. Two legged. Somewhere in front of her, in the darkness beyond the firelight. She set her rifle across her lap. Didn’t get up. She’d be a faster draw like this.

Blue rolled over to her belly, ears cocked forward. She didn’t growl. Her hackles didn’t raise. But she stared hard into the night.

A shadow, darker than dark, slid into the edge of the light.

“Hello?” It sounded more like the echo of someone speaking in the distance than coming from right in front of her.

“Howdy,” Mary Beth said. She kept her hand on her gun and her shoulders loose.

“Thought you were a mirage, ma’am.” Closer to the fire now, Mary Beth could make out features, a wide nose, pale skin, strong jaw. He stood with his legs wide to match his hips, thumbs hooked in a worn leather belt.

She laughed. “No need to stand on ceremony. There’s chili if you want it.” Even while she talked, she listened out, making sure no one came up behind her.

“I could eat, and I’ll warm up at your fire if I can.” His voice was low and rough. It made her think of the scrape of old boots across sharp rocks.

“Sit,” she said.

He sank down onto his haunches, balanced easily, set his hat on the ground to one side. His hair was too long, messy, fell into his face without the hat to hold it back.

Mary Beth only had two small tin plates with her, but the other was clean enough. She spooned some chili onto it, passed it over. Gave him the last of the bread to soak it up. “Sorry about the fork. Only got one spoon.”

He nodded his thanks and dug in. She let him eat in silence, kept her hand steady on her rifle. Blue watched the man close, but her fur was still flat and her body relaxed. She wanted food, more’n likely. Shameless begger when it came to some things, no matter how Mary Beth tried to teach her better’n that.

“This is good,” he said. He ate fast, methodical. Wiped the bread across the plate when he’d put everything else away, getting the last of the sauce.

It wasn’t. “That’s a kind lie,” she told him.

“Been a long time since I had a meal like this.” He rested the plate against his thigh. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Pretty late to be wandering out here on your own, no horse or dog.”

His mouth tightened at the corners. She shifted her hand on the rifle. His gaze flicked down and then back to her face. “You’re pretty far out yourself,” he said. “Lone rider and her dog.”

She smiled wide, showing teeth. “Big country out here,” she said. “Room enough to roam.”

“That there is.” He looked around. “You got wash water?”

Mary Beth held out her hand, took the plate and fork back. Tucked them into a saddle bag. “I’ll clean it up here’n a bit.”

He nodded, pulled a little tin out of his shirt pocket. Tobacco and paper. The familiar smell of Bull Durham crept across the fire. He rolled neat, fast, one handed. Offered her the first. She set aside the rifle to reach out for it, but kept the gun to hand. Lit the cigarette off a match. Inhaled slow and deep.

They sat like that awhile, quiet while the smoke from their cigarattes mixed with what came off the campfire.

“What’re you doin’ all the way out here?” Mary Beth asked when she finished her cigarette. He took one more deep pull, then he was done too.

“Looking,” he said. She thought that might be it, but eventually he added, “For a spook.”

She settled back against her saddle. “Spook hunting,” she said, trying it out. “Any spook in particular?” He looked at her, silent. “I could do with a good ghost story.”

“Got anything to drink?” he asked.

She hadn’t planned on taking it out, but little bit of whiskey was a fair enough trade for a good tale. She slipped her flask out of the saddlebag, took a big swig, handed it over. This was the cheap stuff, barely better’n rotgut, and it burned all the way down.

He shuddered as he drank, then handed it back. He hadn’t moved out of his crouch. Held himself so still it made her legs hurt just looking at him.

“They say there’s a woman out here.” His voice was good for storytelling, just as rough now after food and drink as it’d been when he first came up. “Wandering the plains, trying to make her way to the mountains.”

“A woman on her own.” Mary Beth smiled again, wide as before. “Scary thing.”

He nodded. “That’s what they say. She’s an angry thing, or heartbroken, or scared, every story’s different, but all of them, to a one, say she’s scarier than anything.”

Charlie Boy stamped three times, agitated. She whistled to him again, started higher than it ended. He settled, went back to chewing grass, dry as it was.

“Why’s she so scary?” Mary Beth asked.

He watched her a long moment. “She’s a killer, that one. Catches you out on your own, last thing you know is her’n her anger.”

“Or her heartbreak,” she countered. “Or her fear.”

“Or those,” he agreed. “Whatever drives her across the plains, it rides her hard, doesn’t give her a break. And she does the same for the people she finds out on their own.”

“Not many wander alone.”

“You and me,” he said.

“I got Charlie Boy and Blue.” At her name, Blue raised her head, then got up out of the dirt and came to lean against Mary Beth’s side. She wasn’t big, but she could lean hard, that stocky body pushing into Mary Beth’s until she could feel it.

“Maybe that’d stop the woman.” He shrugged. “Stories never talk about her hurting animals.”

“That don’t keep you safe.”

He laughed. It was weak, choked off fast. Like he’d forgotten how to laugh or his throat hadn’t worked in awhile. “You want a story or not?”

She took another slug of whiskey, passed the flask, motioned for him to go on. Blue settled in against her, a line of warmth, and Charlie Boy chomped in the background. The fire popped, spitting sparks. Overhead, the stars were bright, the sky wide.

“No two stories match up on where she came from. She got lost from a wagon train long time ago, some say. Ran away from her momma and daddy. Came out to teach, or work a ranch, or marry. Took off to get away from the law.”

He took a drink of whiskey, handed it back. “None of that matters, not really. Doesn’t matter how she died, either, if she did. What matters is the things she’s doing out here now.”

Mary Beth raised her eyebrows. “If she died? Isn’t that part of being a ghost?”

“I didn’t say I was ghost hunting,” he said. “That’s on you.” He looked at her hard. Didn’t bother her none. She watched him right back, until he shrugged and started up again. “Maybe she’s a ghost and her body’s somewhere, bones all that’s left. Maybe she’s something else entirely, still living, or something like it.”

“What’s she do?” Mary Beth asked. “Those things she’s doing out here, the only things that matter, what are they?”

“Stories are all different there, too, but they’ve got one thing in common: she finds a lone person. She takes a lone person. And they’re never seen again, but for maybe some blood or scraps of cloth.”

Mary Beth laughed outright. “Sounds more like a pack of wolves or some of those big cats passing through.”

He smiled. The firelight sent shadows dancing across his face. “Maybe so. Lot of the stories I chase down, that’s what it is. That spook crying back in the canyon? Coyotes singing out. Woman being hurt in the Ozarks, someone no one ever sees but hears scream every night? Mountain lion cutting through the area. Strange lights out over the bog? Kids with lanterns getting up to no good.”

“So you’re looking for the lies, are you?” Mary Beth’s lips pressed tight. “Debunking the stories. You’re not a believer.”

“I am,” he said. He looked out at the darkness. It loomed around them, pressed close at the edges of the light. “I’m looking for real spooks. I find other things instead.”

“But you keep looking.”

“I keep looking.”

Mary Beth shifted her weight. Took her hand off her rifle. “Let me tell you a story,” she said. “Maybe you haven’t heard it before.”

“Maybe not.” He pushed one hand through his hair, shoving it back. Still he crouched, balanced. Still it made Mary Beth hurt just looking at him. “Even if I have, I like a good story.”

“Whiskey for a cigarette,” she said first. He smiled, showing crooked teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. Rolled two more cigarettes. She gulped whiskey, then gave him the flask, took the cigarette. Lit it, blew smoke toward the fire. “There is something out here. Not sure it’s a woman, but what do I know? Maybe she comes like that when people expect to see her. Maybe he comes when they’re scared they’ll see some old prospector chasing his gold. Maybe they’re both a black dog when they need to be, or a horse white as fog.”

He drank, long and slow, held the unlit cigarette in his right hand. She smoked, and listened. Still nothing behind her. Charlie Boy was settled, not even grazing. Blue was calm against her side.

“Whatever it is, and I’ll call it her ‘cause you think it’s a woman,” she nodded at him, “she’s hungry. Hungry for food, for companionship. It gets lonely out here. All that big sky and wide open space does a number on a girl. Hungry for life. Hungry for revenge.”

“What’s she need revenge for?”

“Listen.” Mary Beth huffed at him, but smiled, too. She liked ‘em eager. “Why does anyone need revenge? It don’t matter what really happened, just that she thinks she was wronged. Maybe someone crossed her in the street without saying hello. Maybe her lover spurned her. Maybe she was starvin’ and no one would share their food.” 

“She’s hungry,” he said, echoing her words.

“That she is.” Mary Beth leaned forward, added a hunk of wood to the fire. It burned good, still, but she needed it a little brighter yet. “So she wanders, and she takes what she wants, and the people, when they see her, they get scared.”

“Woman on her own, that’s scary.” Again, he turned her own words around on her.

She bared her teeth. “A woman that hungers, that’s what they fear. Not a quiet girl, gentle and kind. Not a sweetheart, safe to look at and love. Not a mother or a sister or a child.”

“Every woman was a child once.”

“Were they?” she asked. 

For the first time, he shifted his weight, rocked from one foot to the other. Moved a little, and his back popped.

“They were.”

She hummed a little. “That’s what they say,” she allowed. “But children grow up.”

“If they can.”

“Grow up,” she said again, “living or dead, they’re not children for long.”

He twitched. Glanced at the fire, then out at the darkness. She held her breath. Listened hard. Nothing behind her. Nothing coming up on him.

“She hungered for a ride,” Mary Beth said. “So she took a horse. She hungered for food, so she took dinner. She hungered for love, so she dragged pretty girls and boys into the darkness outside of town.”

He licked his lips. Put one hand on his hat. His thighs tensed. Wouldn’t be long now.

Mary Beth kept her hand away from her gun.

“She hungered,” he said. His eyes were big, his lips red, his skin washed even paler in the firelight.

“She hungers,” Mary Beth said, and whistled, steady and even.

Charlie Boy called back. Blue’s ears went forward.

The man stood, and he back away from the fire. His gaze flickered to the gun, then back to her face. She kept her hands in her lap.

He faded into the darkness. She kept still. His heart beat fast. His pace was slow until he was well outside the circle of firelight, then, he ran.

Mary Beth whistled again, once, sharp. Charlie Boy was already moving, hoofbeats like a pounding heart.

Blue whined, and Mary Beth stroked the top of her head.

“My poor hungry girl,” she said, and let go.

 

 

Mary Beth whistled up Charlie Boy, low to high. He came near, put his head over her shoulder. She scratched his neck, stepped back until she could get under his chin where he really liked it.

“Good boy.” She took a soft cloth to his coat, worked her way down his legs, took a hoof knife out to get out a couple stones, a bit of bone. The cloth was stained when she was done, and she dropped it at the edge of the dying fire.

Blue ran far out into the grass, then back, out, then back, following all the smells she found. The prairie was alive now, grass moving in the wind, birds taking flight. There was light and noise, the shadows of the night before gone.

She saddled Charlie Boy quick, swung herself up into the saddle easy. Blue came running without being called. They set out at a trot, but Charlie Boy sank into a canter a couple steps after. She rocked with it, just a woman with her horse and dog, alone in the sea of prairie.

Someone’d find the fire eventually, and the remnants of their meal. It’d be ash by then, the fire at least, in its circle of stones. Maybe everything else, too. It didn’t matter which way it was seen.

The stories would never be told the same.


End file.
